How They Fall
by Magda the Magpie
Summary: When Lestrade literally falls over into a pond, injuring himself in the process, John stays over at his place for the night to take care of him and discovers himself a new interest for literature that makes him all hot and bothered.


As much as John loved the chase of a good murder investigation, he hated seeing someone get hurt in the process. This time however, it wasn't Sherlock. No, the infallible consulting detective had somehow managed to follow the _wrong_ guy for once. Lestrade, on the other hand, was hot on the heels of the real suspect. The D.I. was fast and sharp despite what Sherlock always said, so he was the first to come face to face with their perpetrator… and his two unnaturally enormous dogs. Both so huge and monstrous, they gave John flashbacks from Baskerville and the sight made him pause long enough that he strayed back and wasn't able to push Lestrade out of the way when the beasts attacked. The dogs couldn't be blamed, as they were only defending their master, but John could have shot them when he saw them pounce on Lestrade with their enormous paws, barking and growling menacingly. Their combined weight was more than enough to make the tall DI stumble and fall backwards, over the garden's hedge and right into a pond full of stagnant water. It probably saved Lestrade from getting molested more severely by the beasts as they didn't seem all that fond of the water and ran away from the ensuing splashing, or maybe it was because of the awful stench coming from the dirty pond or the shouts from all the people coming to the man's rescue. In the end, it took two constables to help the poor detective inspector out of pond and across the muddy banks. It would have been funny if John hadn't heard loud and clear for someone to call an ambulance.

Quite worried now, John rushed to his side to see if he could be of any help until the EMTs arrived. Sherlock didn't need him. He could find his own way back. Probably. John still didn't understand how he could have possibly gotten lost in the first place and he wondered if he should test him for drugs. He hadn't looked high, nor had he been too bored of late so he doubted that was it, but it was better to be safe than sorry with the impossible man.

"Not one of my most glorious moments," the D.I. said when he saw him approach.

Lestrade sported a crooked smile as he tried to wring water out of his clothes without getting undressed, but he suddenly winced and dropped what he was doing to inspect his right forearm.

"Let me see," John said, taking charge of the injured arm.

The fabric of his coat as well as his shirt underneath were torn beyond repair so he didn't hesitate when he took out his swiss army knife to cut the two layers open for a better look. John grimaced at the sight of the mangled flesh and demanded a water bottle from one of the passing constables.

"Not good?" Lestrade asked, looking paler by the minute.

"A bit not good, yeah," John admitted. "Dog bites can be pretty bad in general, but the size of those monsters plus the pond water… I think antibiotics won't be amiss and you'll have to check your temperature regularly so you don't run a fever."

He stopped to thank the man who'd brought him the required water and splashed it liberally on the D.I.'s arm. He hissed through clenched teeth, but didn't move an inch.

"That and a few stitches, of course."

"Of course," Lestrade muttered. "Because why couldn't my day get any worse. Ah… wait for it."

John did, wondering what he meant by that when he heard Sherlock start berating Lestrade's team about proper handling of evidence. Rich, coming from him. And then: "How could you let him get away, Lestrade? I can't do all the work for you all the time. How hard can it be to arrest the culprit when I have all but served him to you on a silver platter."

"There it is," the D.I. said, sounding tired and resigned.

John rolled his eyes at the two drama queens and pulled Lestrade by his uninjured arm to the ambulance that had just flashed its lights at the edge of the police activity, then left him in the care of the two EMTs so he could go and lecture Sherlock about his manners. However, his friend had followed him and looked curiously over his head - the tall git - towards the ambulance and then back at where they'd been standing when he arrived.

"Did he fall in the pond?"

"I'd be more impressed if it hadn't taken you this long to figure it out when Lestrade is literally dripping wet and smells like a sewer."

Sherlock scowled.

"Well, it was hardly important."

"I beg your pardon?" John asked, feeling a headache coming on at his friend's callous remark.

"To the case. Not important to the case, John."

John hummed, not completely satisfied by his explanation, but at least he was making an effort. Then Lestrade's deep voice carried over the hubbub surrounding them.

"He can do it, then. He's a doctor."

They were talking about him if their collective gazes and pointed finger was any indication, so John walked back over to the ambulance to see what this was about, only to discover that neither of the EMTs felt comfortable doing stitches on that sort of injury and wanted to take the detective to the hospital, which he in turn categorically refused to do. He was worse than Sherlock, John realized.

"At least take the blanket," John scolded. "You'll catch your death."

John sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose then addressed the less angry-looking EMT.

"Povidone iodine?" he asked and received a curt nod. "Alright, if you wouldn't mind handing me gloves, nylon 3-0, a long curved needle and gauze?"

John paused, considering Greg carefully before he asked him: "What's your pain tolerance like?"

Greg snorted, nodded towards Sherlock.

"I've tolerated that pain in the arse for a good few years now, so I'd say pretty good."

John shrugged, accepted his answer as a refusal for analgesic and slapped his gloves on with a resounding snap before threading the needle and going to work on the D.I., one stitch at a time. Slow and careful, his hands were steady, he was used to this sort of field work in the Army and he was pleased it came back to him so naturally. He was almost glad the man had gotten bit. Almost. He wasn't a monster. One of the EMTs leaned over to inspect his stitches, seemed satisfied by his handiwork and went for a smoke while the other one chatted up Donovan, of all people. He was a braver man than he was.

Once John was satisfied he'd stitched all he could to the best of his ability, John covered his work gently with gauze and taped it in place.

"No other injury?" John asked holding up the needle.

"Depends. Can you sew my coat back together too?"

"You'd have to get the missing pieces out of those dogs first," John replied looking suspiciously at his patient. He was used to deflection in his line of work, and doubly so with Sherlock, which practically made him an expert at detecting it. "Where are you hurt? Don't make me look for it, Lestrade, you won't like it."

The D.I.'s eyebrows shot up and John almost took that as a challenge before the man's shoulders sagged.

"It's just scrapes. From the bushes, I think. Nothing important."

"Usually, I'd agree, but you went for a dip in what is basically a pool of bacteria. Show me."

Lestrade sighed and turned around, dropping the blanket. John looked up but the man was too tall, taller than Sherlock in fact. Funny how he'd never noticed that before.

"You're going to have to bend over," John sighed, cursing the Watson height, or lack thereof, for the umpteenth time in his life.

"Sorry… what?" the D.I. croaked, not turning around.

Was he catching a cold already? Better hurry up and send him home.

"You're too tall. Bend over."

"Oh, right, sorry," he said and chuckled.

John saw the vertical scratches from the nape of his neck down his collar, some pretty deep but none needing stitches thankfully. He cleaned the wound as thoroughly as the bite however, and bandaged it in a giffy.

"I imagine your vaccines are up to date," he asked as he took off his gloves inside out and threw them in the small bin inside the ambulance.

Lestrade nodded and hopped off the edge of the vehicle where he'd sat so John could treat his neck, wrapping the blanket tighter around him once more. He had to be freezing by now.

"I'll write you up a prescription for antibiotics for a week, check your temperature regularly for the next day, you don't want an infection on top of that, and keep the bite wound dry for 48 hours. 24 for your neck. Change the bandages regularly and the stitches can come out in a week."

Lestrade gave him a blank look which made John frown in concern.

"You have someone to help you out with all that?" he asked.

The bandages were going to be a pain if he had to do it alone. What with one situated behind his head and the other on his dominant arm. Not to mention he'd need the antibiotics right now but looked like he could barely hold himself up.

"I'll manage," Lestrade assured him, still smiling despite everything.

John would have been in a foul mood in his stead by now. He turned on the spot, scanning the crowd in search of Sherlock, but was unable to spot him.

"Where the hell did he run off to again?" he muttered, not really expecting an answer.

"It's Sherlock Holmes, so it can be anything between a dumpster and the top of a tree. But I actually saw him leaving in the direction the dogs ran off to, so I'm not sure about that one."

A curse escaped him. Sherlock was always going off somewhere on his own without any backup, without so much as a weapon. It was infuriating. He typed a scathing text to Sherlock then stalked towards Lestrade's car.

"Well?" he asked extending an open hand when he reached the door with a puzzled detective trailing behind him. "Keys. I'm taking you home. You don't expect me to leave you here, do you? You'd probably go back to work and ruin my perfect needlework."

Lestrade snorted and threw the keys at him before sliding into the passenger seat which he melted into like soft butter, obviously knackered beyond reason. They stopped on the way at a chemist for everything John thought he might need and that a bachelor like Lestrade probably didn't have. After giving directions to his place, they drove in amiable silence.

"Nice place," John noted.

He hadn't known what to expect from a divorced detective inspector who worked more than he should, but his home was… cosy. A bit like Baker Street but without the mess and a Sherlock. Lestrade seemed pleased by the compliment and told him to order something for dinner - his treat - and to make himself comfortable while he rinsed half a pond down the drain.

John decided on pizza since it would be easiest for Lestrade to eat, whatever hand he used, and it was warm. He made tea too and had everything ready by the time the other man joined him.

"Better?" John asked with a grin because he literally looked like a new man.

"Hell yeah. The Yard is going to poke fun at me for falling in that blasted pond for weeks though. I expect they'll be calling me Timmy by the time I return."

John chuckled. He'd had no idea the DI was such a funny guy. He was usually so dour whenever he dropped by their flat with a case or met them at a crime scene, but then again, you weren't supposed to giggle at crime scenes so he had the right of it. He wondered why they'd never socialised out of work hours though. Go out for a beer for example. They had a lot in common all things considered from working together, not least of all Sherlock, but maybe that wasn't such a good topic of conversation: crime, Death and Sherlock's antics… No, maybe not such a great idea. He doubted any Yarder wanted to talk shop off duty.

So John was relieved when Lestrade put on a movie full of improbable explosions and guns that never ran out of ammo as they ate their pizza, they had plenty of occasion to mock the plot or lack thereof, as well as the poor acting and the corny dialogues, circumventing all and any awkward silence that usually fell between two acquaintances having dinner together. Lestrade naturally switched to calling him John as they got to know each other better and John followed suit.

"But I can call you Gavin if you'd prefer. Or Timmy," John teased. "Ah, wait a mo, I think Sherlock is finally texting back. Probably looking for a pen or something."

The text was actually from Donovan, begging him to get her boss back on his feet asap before Sherlock drove her crazy.

"Looks like Sherlock roped your sergeant into assisting him," he explained once he'd gotten his laughter back under control. "I don't know how he got her to agree, but my bet is on blackmail."

"That can't end well," Greg commented trying, and failing, to look worried. "What d'you reckon? A murder-suicide?"

"Nah, Donovan wouldn't have any regrets for murdering him. She'd probably ask a medal for it. No, I'm betting on a double homicide. They'll kill each other by morning."

"Speaking of. Sorry to ditch you, but I really need to sleep. You sure you don't have better things to do than look after an old man?"

John snorted.

"What do you think I usually do? Sherlock doesn't exactly look after himself. And neither do you. Did you really think you could sneak off to bed without taking your meds?"

John knew he wouldn't be sleeping for a while, not with his blood still boiling from the chase of the case, and even the comfy looking guest room didn't tempt him to get some shut eye. Instead he perused the inspector's bookshelves. He had a surprising amount of books. Another little fact he hadn't guessed about Lestrade. Greg. The image he had of him tonight had nothing to do with the one from that morning. He could see them becoming friends, which was bound to annoy Sherlock to no end. A welcome bonus, in sum.

Perusing the shelves, it seemed Greg favoured detective fiction, amusingly enough, with a few thrillers, crime mysteries and even romance novels dotted throughout, as well as the classics that somehow made their way into every home, even those of people who never read. John recognized a few covers and names he'd read himself and looked for one he might like to read to pass the time until sleep caught up with him.

He discarded the best-sellers, feeling adventurous tonight, and finally settled on a completely unknown author by the name of Malcolm Morris. He chose it mostly because he liked the cover which showed a detective in a long coat looming over a dead body while a coroner bent down over it for examination. It gave a feeling of authenticity straight away and the title 'One Fall is not Enough' reminded him of a James Bond movie and tickled his curiosity. He returned to the couch and began reading. And reading. The pages turned well into the night. John found himself completely engrossed, not only by the investigation, trying to guess who the murderer was and what his next move would be, but also by the relationship between the main protagonist, a D.I. that reminded him a lot of Lestrade although he couldn't pinpoint why, and the coroner whom he couldn't help but sympathize with because trouble always seemed to find him. It was well written too, gripping, so John wasn't sure why it wasn't a hit in the bookstores. Well into the night, John forcibly put the book down even though he wanted to keep reading, or he wouldn't sleep at all.

OoO

But the next morning, he woke up early as usual despite going to bed so late, knowing he'd never break that particular army habit. He prepared a breakfast for the both of them with the dregs of Greg's fridge and cupboards. It was that or leftover pizza, which didn't seem appealing at all. Besides, Greg would probably need it for the next meal if he didn't want to starve. Grocery shopping was in order, but it wasn't really his place to say, let alone do, as he was only a guest there. John started eating without Greg because he was still sleeping he could use all the rest he got. His book kept him company anyway.

"Hey, thanks for the coffee," the tousled DI greeted him as he shuffled in, stealing him out of a fascinating chase. John almost felt as if he was living it. He put the book down reluctantly.

"You seem like a coffee person in the morning," John said.

"Right in one," he said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "Found something to occupy yourself?"

Greg nodded towards the book and took a tentative sip of his coffee, making a satisfied sigh the next instant. John held the cover up for inspection, wondering if Greg would approve of his choice. The face he made was hard to read, somewhere between surprise and hilarity. He choked on his coffee, but far from giving an explanation, he innocently asked what he thought of the book. Might as well be honest.

"I couldn't put it down last night, it's really good even though I've never heard of the author. Is there a sequel? I'm not even halfway through but I can tell I'm going to want to read more books by him."

Greg's face lit up so he was probably a fan too.

"There is actually, I'll lend it to you when you've finished up with that one. If you still want it."

John puzzled at that. Was the ending that bad? Not that he was going to ask because he hated spoilers so much that he hadn't even read the synopsis of the book. He liked going in blind. That's why he put so much stock on the cover image and title to make his choice.

"Sure, thanks. You don't mind if I take this home with me then? I promise I won't let Sherlock use it for an experiment."

"On one condition: you'll give me your honest opinion about it when you're done."

"So… like a book club?"

"Yeah. Why the hell not?"

John agreed. It would give them an excuse to meet up for a pint now and then, away from work and from Sherlock.

Then John had to remind Greg to take his antibiotics again and to make sure he did, even when he was away from his watchful eye, John innocently told him of gruesome consequences of an animal bite if not taken seriously. Greg looked positively disgusted, which had been his aim, but also strangely interested, asking him a couple of questions about things that didn't concern his own injury in particular. He added morbid curiosity to his mental list of 'what DI Lestrade is really like'.

Before he left, he changed Greg's bandages and showed him the correct way to do it. His stitches still looked good, no swelling or puckering so the scarring would be kept to a minimum, making John inordinately pleased with himself. Since Greg had showed no sign of fever or infection, he'd probably be alright now, but John made him promise to call him if there was anything wrong. Greg really was as bad a patient as Sherlock.

OoO

Sherlock wasn't home when he got back and John wasn't due for work at the surgery until the next day. Far from being disgruntled by the unnatural quiet and tranquility, John curled up in his chair with his book. A light drizzle started to fall outside and if the chimney had been in working order, it would have been picture perfect.

Of course, it didn't last. First of all, either he was reading the hints wrong or there was a budding romance happening between the two protagonists, the detective and the coroner, _both male_. It suddenly dawned on John why this book wasn't a best seller. There was nothing wrong with it, on the contrary, it was really good, even the romance which he wasn't usually a fan of, but a gay detective romance? Well, he supposed there wasn't much demand for it. He'd never suspected such literature existed himself, which made him feel like an idiotic pompous arse now.

But why hadn't Greg warned him? Or maybe he'd just assumed John had read the summary. After checking the back cover, John realized that maybe he should read summaries from now on to avoid these kind of surprises. But that brought on more questions: Why did Greg have this book? Was he gay? Is that why he divorced? Or was it something he got as a joke? Or to play pranks on unsuspecting visitors? Not that he minded. He was fine with it. It was all fine.

But… No, that wasn't it. Greg had looked taken aback himself by his choice of book, no surprising now that John knew what sort of book it was. Not a prank then. And he had looked pleased when he had told him he was enjoying the book but had Greg known he didn't actually know the content of the book? Urgh, what a mess. John ran his hands down his face. He'd just wanted a book, now he had a handful of awkwardness to look forward to.

Then John recalled Greg wanted to _discuss_ the book. And he'd agreed. Good grief. What the hell was he going to say?

His eyes landed on the detective on the front cover, looming somberly against the unrealistically coloured sky. Well, he wasn't a coward. It was no good wondering what to do before he had all the cards in hand. First, he would finish the book, then decide what to do or say. Nodding at his newfound resolution, he returned to his page and resumed his journey into the world of the _definitely_ gay fictional detective.

OoO

"Why are you blushing?"

John startled so bad, he had thrown his book up in the air, catching it before it hit him in the head on its way back down. Amen for good reflexes.

"Damnit Sherlock! I told you not to ninja your way in, it's creepy."

"And I didn't," Sherlock replied with a very Mycroftian eyebrow raise, his eyes narrowing onto the book John was desperately trying to hide now. "Interesting, is it?"

"No."

Sherlock didn't believe a word of it, of course. And why should he when he'd been so entranced by his reading he hadn't even heard his flatmate return. And what he'd been reading had been _very_ interesting indeed. The detective (the fictional one), was taking a leap of faith by making his interest known to his doctor (again, the fictional one) in a very tactile manner. After running out of the rain, catching their breath under a shop awning, the detective reached out a hand to push back a lock of hair dripping water down the doctor's brow. John had done the very same thing more than a few times to his girlfriends, but never before had he put himself in the boots of the person receiving such a tender gesture and he could almost feel the fictional hand of the detective ghosting down his face, yearning for more but not daring to say anything lest he broke the spell-

And then Sherlock was there, breaking his immersion into the book. He hadn't realized he had been blushing but the heat in his cheeks was evidence enough and he was hard pressed to deflect whatever line of deduction his friend was following. Only one solution: flight. He could go to his bedroom to continue reading, but Sherlock would just follow him there, as oblivious as ever about the concept of privacy. Outside it was then. Tucking the book under his arm, he got up and made for the door, grabbing his coat on his way there.

"I… uhm… meeting some old mates at the pub."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him in obvious disbelief.

"'later," John mumbled lamely before Sherlock could start a bloody inquisition.

His friend always felt so entitled to know everything, but John was reluctant to share this book with him although he wasn't quite sure why. He doubted Sherlock would mock him for his newfound interest in "gay literature". In fact, he probably wouldn't care one whit and would deem it as uninteresting as any other piece of fictional literature. But that wouldn't stop him from deducing something about John he might not want to hear, something he might not know himself yet…

Maybe he should just return the book. It was creating more turmoil around and inside him than he was comfortable with. Yet… he really wanted to know what would happen between the detective and the coroner. And if they would catch the bad guy, of course.

Outside, the drizzle had turned into a heavy downpour much like the one in the book which he tucked safely in an inside pocket of his jacket. Greg was kind enough to lend it to him and he intended to return it in as pristine a condition as it had been in when he had borrowed it. Maybe he'd really go to the pub. It was a bit early but all the better to read in peace in a booth and it would mean he wouldn't even have lie to Sherlock: he was going to the pub with friends. Fictional friends.

As it turned out, and because he just couldn't catch a break, the book was not _just_ a romance, it was hot. Like porn, but in his head. The words weren't crude, it was still very well written, but the images and sensations it conjured in his head and body were very vivid. So much so, John snapped the book shut and let his head fall atop it on the table.

He had a little problem. Well, not so little and still growing. He hadn't sported an erection in public in a very long time. Damn that book making him all hot and bothered with that damned shower scene. He'd never look at his shower the same way again.

As soon as his stiffy had abated, John left the pub. Reading the book in a public space was definitely a hazard. He'd just have to wait for the cover of night to finish it.

On his way home, he got Sherlock's favourite Indian takeout because he'd been quite rude earlier and it hadn't even been warranted for once. Sherlock was curious, that was just his nature. You couldn't get mad at the sky for being blue, and you couldn't get mad at Sherlock for being nosy.

That night, he waited until he heard Sherlock tinker with his test tubes downstairs until he opened his book. If he had started a new experiment, then barging into his room unannounced should be the last thing on his mind. He only had a few chapters left so he knew he'd be finished tonight and it made him both expectant and sad as it always did when he got too emotionally invested in a novel.

The pages turned and the protagonist's relationship was coming to a climax, literally as well as figuratively, and just as had happened earlier in the pub, john was working himself up to a full blown boner. He ignored it, focusing on the story playing in front of his minds eyes but he'd be lying if he said he didn't think about wanking to the book a few times like a hormonal teenager discovering his first Playboy, although he supposed youngsters didn't even know what that was nowadays, simply googling their porn on their phones.

Not to mention he usually wanked to good old heterosexual sex, but now, the images popping into his head were quite different, involving twice the amount of cocks and balls with no sign of any boobs bobbing around. His porn preferences had suddenly shifted and he wasn't quite sure how to deal with that. It was probably just a phase, it didn't mean he was gay or even contemplating it, but it sure as hell was confusing.

He gently closed the book shut when he was done, feeling oddly bereaved, yet still horny as hell, which just proved how much of a lonely sod he was. He hadn't had a girlfriend in… months? What was the point when Sherlock crushed all his efforts in mere days, or minutes on one memorable occasion. He hadn't gotten a leg over in ages and his quick wanks in the shower were perfunctory at best, fulfilling his physiological needs more than pleasuring himself. Fuck. He was turning into Sherlock. Soon he'd be claiming sex was a useless and unseamly endeavour that distracted bodily resources from the higher purpose of mental prowess or some shit.

Sleep didn't come easy that night, stuck as he was between unfulfilled need for release, yet still feeling too self conscious about wanking because of a book, and disturbing thoughts of what he should do next.

At breakfast, he decided to make good on his promise to set up a book club meeting with Greg.

He had to return his book anyway and ignoring the issue was only going to make working alongside the D.I. awkward.

 **Hey, it's John. I finished the book. Want to meet up tonight?**

The reply came quickly, not surprising since he was on leave until the stitches came out.

 **Already? Sure, I wouldn't mind an excuse to go out for a bit. GL**

They set up a meeting at a pub halfway between their two homes. After that, John spend the rest of the morning running what he'd say to Greg through his mind, but it all sounded stupid and pointless. He had no idea why Greg had wanted to discuss the book in the first place, nor how he'd react to his opinion. He was glad to work at the surgery that afternoon as it allowed him to focus all of his attention on his patients rather than that damnable book, but the hours ticked by at an alarming pace and all too soon he was on his way to meet Greg.

The D.I. was the first one there. He looked better, more rested than he'd seen him in a while. John's first instinct was to check his bandages but he reminded himself he wasn't here as his doctor but as a friend. And as an amateur book critic, apparently. He sat and dropped the book between them as they spied each other's reaction. Greg had a good poker face, he had to give him that. He was totally unreadable. John broke first.

"You could have warned me."

"Problem?" Greg replied in a very good imitation of their favourite high functioning sociopath that had John huff out a laugh despite himself.

"No, not really. I was just surprised. Refill?" he asked with a nod at Greg's nearly empty glass.

"Sure. I heard booze makes up half the fun of book clubs. Or so Donovan says, I've never actually done this before."

That prompted a whole new array of questions to pop into his mind, but John went to grab their drinks first, careful not to slosh the beer over the rim as he placed them on the table so as not to deface the book. The fictional detective was staring at him from his cover, but so was the very real one in front of him.

"The detective in the book, he reminded me of you."

He'd said it without thinking it through. The words out of his mouth before he could think better of it. Fortunately, Greg took it as a compliment if the way his face lit up was any indication.

"Really? How so?"

John took a sip, considering his words more carefully this time. He wanted to befriend Greg, not make him run off screaming.

"He's hard working, always on the job, has to put up with a lot of shit even if it's not Sherlock level shenanigans, but he doesn't let all that turn him into a bitter man."

On the contrary, the fictional detective was a romantic at heart and a caring lover but he had no idea if that was true of Greg so he certainly wasn't going to mention it. Urgh, now he was wondering if it was true of Greg too and that was conjuring images he could have done without at the moment and damnit, he was _not_ going to blush. He took a large swig of beer to hide his face before continuing.

"That and the trench coat."

Greg laughed.

"Everyone knows the best detectives wear trench coats: Sam Spade, Columbo, Marlowe, Dick Tracy…"

"I'll be sure to tell Sherlock that."

"Don't. He might just buy one and I'll miss his bloody huge Belstaff."

"Not to mention he won't like the competition and will set yours on fire."

"Yeah, I can just see him doing that," Greg said with a contemplative look at his beer. "What about the coroner?"

John certainly wasn't going to say he identified more than he should have with that character, especially not when he'd just blurted out his lover reminded him of Greg. He didn't want to make things awkward between them.

"Well, he didn't remind me of Molly, that's for sure," he laughed off.

"He reminds me of you actually" Greg said unexpectedly, apparently not caring he was implying they'd make a good couple like the two protagonists.

"H-how so?" he almost pulled off nonchalant, but his cheeks were definitely warmer than they should be. Maybe he could blame it on the beer. He took another swig.

"Smart, loyal, fearless-"

John snorted at that, interrupting Greg without meaning to, but he wasn't fearless and had never pretended to be. Only idiots pretended to be fearless and they usually ended up too young under a coroner's scalpel.

"I'm not fearless. I mean… you were there at Baskerville. I had quite a strong reaction to the hound."

"Weren't you drugged?"

John nodded cautiously, humming in thought.

"I think I would have been scared shitless anyway, I'm just good at hiding it."

Greg nodded. It seemed he understood perfectly what he meant. Overcoming your fears and doing what needed to be done despite them was a lot more impressive than not having any fears to begin with.

"Brave, then," Greg corrected, his voice soft as he stared at him over the table.

John couldn't tear his eyes away, that is until he felt a blush creep up his neck and he forcibly turned away. Weird. John wasn't sure what was going on. Something seemed to be brewing between them, or was he just imagining it, confusing fiction and reality. Not wanting to make an ass of himself more than he already had, John went in search of more beer for the both of them, and finally had a good excuse for his unusual behaviour as he was quite tipsy by the time they put an end to their book club meeting.

oOo

They were invited onto one of Lestrade's crime scenes later that week and John could scarcely take his eyes off of Greg as he suddenly turned into the living image of the fictional detective with his trench coat flapping in the wind, cutting an impressive figure against the setting sun. Then Sherlock asked for his medical expertise on the cause of death and as John crouched over the body, he had in turn become the living embodiment of the fictional coroner.

He looked up, only to meet Greg's amused gaze. He was obviously thinking along the same lines and they started giggling like schoolgirls over the rather ripe corpse. Everyone was baffled. Even Sherlock was annoyed enough that he lectured them about not giggling at crime scenes before leaving in a snit. He was in a foul enough temper that he might not help Greg out after all and that wasn't fair on him or the victim.

"Sorry," he told Greg with a sheepish smile. "I'll get him back."

In the end, Sherlock refused to return to the crime scene because it was boring, but he did send Greg a text with a lead to follow up on before he started to question John relentlessly about what was going on between him and the D.I. As smart as his friend was, he refused to believe that they were simply in a book club and had been laughing over a similar scene in the last - and only - book they had reviewed that week. It was the truth, but he could sort of understand why Sherlock had trouble believing it.

oOo

Two days later, Mrs Hudson dropped a package for him on the breakfast table along with fresh baked muffins. He thanked her and swatted away Sherlock's hand as he tried to pilfer his mail.

"Why is Lestrade sending you a book?" he asked. "You're not serious about this book club, are you? It's so… pedestrian."

John scowled at him, but sure enough, the package contained a book and a note.

"He says to thank you for the last case, they caught the culprit."

Sherlock didn't seem interested by the news, trying to take a peek at his book instead.

"It's fiction, Sherlock. Nothing that will interest you," John muttered and tried not to grin as he read the rest of the note:

 _Thought you might enjoy the sequel. Book club meeting when you're done?_

John was not sure if the D.I. was hitting on him or not, but that sounded suspiciously like being asked on a date in a very roundabout way, more so because of the book in question. Unless the two protagonists had broken up since the first volume, and since they both agree they re just like them, the contents of this book could be very revealing indeed.

So John dutifully read this second volume. He found it just as interesting and well written as the first, but the romance and subsequent "porn" had a larger place and were hotter if possible. John could only read it at night in the privacy of his own room, going to bed earlier and earlier until Sherlock got suspicious enough that he found him lurking in his bedroom when he got back from work one afternoon. Luckily, John had had the forethought of taking his book with him, just in case. He was almost finished with it and didn't want to have to wrestle it back from his flatmate. The ending was so good it left him feeling needy and horny as hell. Glancing at his watch, John decided it was late enough, but not unreasonably so, that he could venture to swing by Greg's place.

The lights were on, but by the time John got there, his mind was not so filled with lust that he wondered if it was really a good idea. He was still uncertain about Greg's intentions, about what he wanted himself… but then he remembered Greg telling him he was brave and he stood straighter, walking up to his door and knocking with more confidence than he really felt.

Greg opened, his eyebrows rising at the sight of him. What should he say? He should have thought this through, he realized. You couldn't just walk up to a man's door and expect him to read your mind, but words were stuck in his throat as his heart threatened to leap out of his chest. Dejected, John simply held up the book.

"You're done already?" Greg asked and he nodded in relief.

That was half the explanation for his presence. Greg looked at him, scrutinizing his face and whatever he saw there seemed to explain the other reason for his visit. Greg snatched the book out of his hand and threw it behind him before pulling him in by his sleeve and slamming the door shut with his foot. John didn't have time to think better of it that he was pushed up against the wall and held there by Greg's taller body before his lips were on his, obliterating all thoughts and doubts he might have had.

 _Yes_ , was all that passed through his mind as he returned the kiss and clung to the body pressed against his.

This is what he wanted, what he'd been yearning for for so long without really knowing it. He should have listened to his body long before, it had been giving him enough clues. Very obvious, _hard_ to miss clues.

"John," Greg said in a husky voice that sent tingles running down his back and a jolt of arousal straight through his cock.

John was already so hard, he was regretting not being naked already and the smoldering look Greg was giving him was not helping matters, nor was the hardness he felt pressing into his groin. He thought he might combust from the sheer heat, if his throbbing heart and cock didn't kill him first.

"I've wanted you for so long," Greg added in that sinful voice.

John made a strangled sound, still fighting to get his voice back under control. Greg was killing him. He was gorgeous and so damn likeable, and now he was telling him he had been lusting after him for a long while? Yeah, he was going to be the death of him.

Lacking the words, John made his desire clear by pulling the other man's shirt off and then his own sweater which was just about stifling him. Not wanting to stop when he'd made such good progress, he also took his shirt off and undid his trousers, sighing in relief when the pressure against his hardened cock lessened.

"In a hurry, are we?" Greg said with a chuckle.

"Yesss," John managed to hiss out, then kissed the goofy smile off Greg's face.

Greg pushed him harder against the wall, rutting against him and John helped him by undoing his trousers, pushing them down with his underwear so he could have a grab at his arse, squeezing two handfuls of the fleshy posterior. Greg moaned and thrust his hips forward before his hand found its way to his cock. Not that it was difficult, it was jutting out like a goddamned flagpole and the contact was making John sing all manner of wanton sounds. He'd been so long without getting off. Hell, it had been a while since he'd even wanked, or been touched by anyone, not to mention all the literary porn he'd consumed lately was pushing him over the edge faster than he'd like but it was all just so much. Greg was everywhere, over him, around his cock, in his mouth, his scent overwhelming him and his grunts stirring something primal within him…

"Oh, God," he mumbled against Greg's mouth just as he came hard in his hand.

"Greg will suffice," he replied.

John snorted once he'd come down from his sex induced high.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to…"

He trailed off. How did you apologize for not taking care of your partner. He was usually a much more considerate lover. Greg just shook his head, eyes still dark with desire and his cock pressing against his stomach as John sagged against the wall on wobbly legs.

"Don't. Looks like you needed it."

John looked down meaningfully towards his own erection.

"Help me to the bedroom?" John asked. "I don't think my knees can take the floor right now."

Greg's breathing hitched at what he meant by that, then he hauled John over his shoulder and was striding across the living room with him laughing at such a display of enthusiasm. He'd feel offended tomorrow at being carried around like a hobbit, but for now, it was rather hot and he had a nice view of Greg's arse from his shoulder.

John didn't care much to look at his surroundings as long as there was a large bed. Greg threw him down on it, then stared at him hungrily as he stepped out of his trousers. John pulled him down by his arm, unconsciously licking his lips as he gazed at Greg's erection. He knew the theory, had had it done to him often enough, but more importantly, he wanted it, in more ways than one.

 _Damnit. I_ am _gay. Bisexual. Whatever._

What he did know was that he was going to get all manner of teasing and knowing looks from everyone he'd ever told most emphatically that he was not whenever they thought he was Sherlock's boyfriend, which was most of London, to be honest.

 _Worth it,_ he thought when he went down on Greg, licking, teasing, fondling and sucking the length of him. He loved the sounds Greg was making under him, the way his hands twisted in the sheets and how his body twitched under his ministrations, trying what he liked done on him and adjusting depending on Greg's reactions. It wasn't long before his movements became more frantic, as he lost control and his hips bucked forward, wanting more. John slid his cock out of his mouth one last time and tightened his fist around it, finishing him off with a couple of strokes. Watching him come was beautiful, unlike anything he'd seen before and whoever made fun of O-faces had never seen Greg Lestrade orgasm.

John waited until he was completely spent before he lay next to him, spying his face for any reaction, wishing he could read his thoughts. He looked content, if anything, but so was he. So were most men who had just ejaculated, he supposed, but that was just a physical reaction. He wanted to unravel the mystery that was Greg. Just a couple of weeks ago, he was still Detective Inspector Lestrade; now, he was in bed with him and John couldn't quite understand how they had gone from A to B so quickly.

Then Greg turned his head towards him and his smile was so sincere that he suddenly didn't care anymore.

"Maybe I should send the author of that book a thank you card," he said instead.

"You already gave him much better than a card," Greg replied with a lazy smirk.

It took John longer than he'd like to admit to connect the dots.

"You?" he asked.

His disbelief quickly turned into understanding. Yeah, it all made sense now. And Greg could read him like an open book because he laughed heartily at the expression on his face.


End file.
